Chapter 10: Cum in Perspective

Harriet arrived home lovingly clutching her carton of Marlboro “red” 100s close to her chest. “Oh Hattie,” exclaimed her mother as Harriet walked through the front door, “come and say hello to Mr and Mrs Jones – you remember, from the Highgate BDSM Club?” Mr and Mrs Jones were among the Danes family’s closest friends, and frequently dropped by for a fuck – though that never stopped Genevieve Danes from enthusiastically re-introducing them to her daughter every time they met.

“Lick my pussy, Mrs Jones,” Harriet smiled dutifully at their guest, who, like her mother, was wearing a large purple strapon so that the two of them could proceed with spit-roasting a pale portly gentleman kneeling on the living carpet. “Oh and, m’ pussy, Mr Jones, I didn’t recognise you for a second,” she giggled.

Mrs Jones maintained her vigorous fucking of her husband’s face as she ventured enthusiastically, “Your mother tells me you’re getting married – how exciting!”

“Oh Mother, have you told everyone already?” Harriet grimaced.

“And why shouldn’t I, cuntling?” Genevieve paused, her dildo deep in Mr Jones’ ass. “Your Daddy and I are very proud of you – aren’t we, Henry?” Mr Danes was curled up on the floor watching, panting and drooling at the mouth as he stroked his cock, but he obediently whimpered his agreement.

“And when do we get to meet your fiancé? What’s he like? Is he handsome? Does he have a big dick? And what does he do for a living? I gather he’s moved in with you?” The questions tumbled from Mrs Jones’s mouth, even as her husband gagged and dry-heaved noisily before her.

“Oh, he’s an artist, Mrs Jones, and works in a gallery. And yes, he has a very big dick. But after work today I think he’s going to his mother’s to pick up some of his things, so he probably won’t be home till late...”

Indeed, at that very moment Michael was standing in his mother’s living room receiving a dressing-down. “Engaged?!” screeched Mrs Didcock. “Engaged – to that cunt?”

“Oh, Mother, please don’t speak about her like that,” mumbled Michael.

“I’m not speaking about her like anything, dickhead,” remonstrated his mother. Ribena and half-chewed Hula Hoops were smeared down her corpulent nude figure as she lay on her sofa, gesticulating at her son with her slimy dildo. “I’m talking about you! How can a hot rich slut like her want to get married to such a hopeless, ugly, impotent drop-out?” Mrs Didcock had put her television on mute, but the moving pictures indicated an ongoing lesbian squirt-bukkake, with a diminutive brunette writhing on the floor, mouth open and tongue out, surrounded by a dozen or so other girls rubbing their cunts hard over her. “She’s not going to stick with you, boy – and no fucking wonder!” continued Mrs Didcock. “OK, she’ll fuck you when you want it, for a while anyway; but then she’ll find another stud who’s more on her level – financially, intellectually, and sexually – I mean, with a proper big cock! And how the fuck are you going to survive anyway? You’ve got no fucking money!”

“Mum, I’ve saved up over the years: I’ve got twenty thousand in the bank already!” Mrs Didcock snorted derisively. “And, I know you won’t believe me, but God has healed my cock: I’ve got a big cock now, and Harriet likes fucking me!”

“Well, I don’t fucking believe you! Go on, show me your ‘big cock’ then, Jesus-freak, let me see it!”

Michael paused awkwardly. On the television, the first few squirts were beginning to issue from the standing girls’ cunts, and the brunette on the floor was wriggling in pleasure as jets of clear girl-cum rained on her face and tits. But Michael muttered under his breath, “I can’t show you my big cock here...”

“And why the fuck not, dickhead – except that you don’t anything to show?”

“No, no, Mother...” Michael’s face revealed his torment. “It doesn’t work here. Here, in this house, with you around, nothing about me works right. But away from you, with Harriet, everything is better. You make me feel small, you make me small. But she makes me feel ... different...”

“BULL-FUCKING-SHIT!” screamed Mrs Didcock. “You trying to blame me for all your problems? That’s just what your failure of a dad did.” Michael’s mother put on an imitation of a whining male voice: “‘Why are you speaking to me like that, dear? Why are you being so horrible? You know how much I love you, darling... ‘ Well, he said all those things, but he fucking left me, didn’t he? And now you’re doing the same, you pathetic, stupid, impotent, ugly, treacherous excuse of a son!”

Michael did not try to respond, but backed slowly out of the living room and began to shut the door. “DON’T YOU FUCKING WALK OUT ON ME, MICHAEL DIDCOCK! YOU’LL FUCKING REGRET IT!!” screeched his mother after him, as he shuffled down the corridor to his room to gather up some belongings.

A minute later, he emerged clutching a large flat rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. Oh yeah, squirt your fucking cum all over my slut face! came the noise of Mrs Didcock’s resumed soundtrack through the living room door, as he walked back down the corridor towards the front door. Drown me in your fucking girl-cum, I wanna –

Michael wavered briefly on the threshold, before setting his jaw and shutting the front door firmly behind him.

“So when’s the happy day, then?” continued Mrs Jones, as she and Genevieve Danes swapped places, so that Genevieve could feed her asshole-flavoured strapon into Mr Jones’ face.

“Oh, we hope in the summer, Mrs Jones. I’m applying the the Royal Academy of Fucking for the autumn, and I’ve got a smoking competition in June, and Michael will be spending the next year doing missionary work abroad for our church. So we thought we’d get married before we spend our year apart: it’ll be even more special for us when he comes back the following summer!”

Mrs Jones was now ramming her strapon into her husband’s asshole deep and hard, and Mr Jones was groaning with pleasure at each new thrust while drooling ecstatically over Genevieve’s dildo. Henry Danes, whimpering with joy, continued to watch from the corner, jerking his cock contentedly. “I ... think ... you are ... very wise,” Mrs Jones continued to advise Harriet, between violent thrusts of her pelvis. “Good to ... spend some time apart ... when you are ... first married, so you get used to ... fucking around ... as much as ... you can ... You don’t want to ... drift into the habit of ... monogamy ... or sexual fidelity ... or anything dodgy ... like that ... That can ... ruin many an ... otherwise promising ... marriage – don’t you think ... Gen?”

“I agree entirely,” replied Harriet’s mother. Thankfully, though, she sensed Harriet’s well-concealed impatience with Mrs Jones’ questioning, and added, “Don’t you have some smoking prep to do, Hattie?”

“Oh yes, Mum, I’ll go and do that now,” grinned Harriet gratefully, as she turned swiftly on her heels and dashed up the stairs.

As she made her way toward her room, she heard a few more scraps of the ladies’ continuing conversation from downstairs, as they changed positions yet again: “Smoking fetish – really? How exciting! I had a great-aunt who died of emphysema when I was young. Is Harriet planning on doing that too – or does she prefer lung cancer? Oh, does that not happen these days? How times have changed...” – before that too was drowned out by the sound of both husbands noisily groaning as they climaxed. “Oh yes, all over my face, both of you...” trilled Mrs Jones, as Harriet shut her bedroom door.

Harriet sat at her dressing table admiring her carton of Marlboro “red” 100s. Removing one packet and carefully unwrapping it, she took out a cigarette, twirled it between her fingers, and sniffed it. It’s probably my imagination, she thought, but it smells richer – and it feels... “heavier” than a “light” ... Weird. Well, let’s give it a go!

Harriet fully expected her first full-strength cigarette to feel rougher, harsher on her throat. But as she took her first inhale, all her expectations were overturned: instead the smoke felt darker, thicker, smoother, less chemical, more natural. It was like tasting a full-blooded fruity Zinfandel, rather than a dry light Sauvignon Blanc; like 85% dark chocolate, instead of the pale milk variety; like a lovely slab of roast belly pork dripping with juices, rather than a virtuous but otherwise tasteless dish of tofu; like a – oh fuck, it’s like taking a huge creamy bukkake from a bunch of huge dicks all over my fucking face, rather than just one weeny little squirt! Already she felt herself taking shallower drags than she was used to, but noticed the satisfaction effortlessly multiply within her. “Oh fuck, this is wonderful!” she muttered, admiring the sight in her mirror as she released a battery of thick puffs of smoke into the air in front of her.

OK, now let’s try some of those tricks! Harriet instructed herself. First she tried to do one of Taylor’s snap inhales – but failed miserably. All she managed was to produce was a rather unremarkable cloudy exhale – no sign of the beautiful swirling ball of smoke the Australian blonde seemed to manage to produce so effortlessly. Shit. After a couple of tries she realised that it wouldn’t work with smoke from her lungs: she mustn’t inhale first. So she tried holding some smoke in her mouth and then blowing it out, but this just produced shapeless puffs of smoke – and deprived her of any nicotine satisfaction. Fuck.

OK, maybe I’ll try to blow some rings: for those I know you need to inhale first... But every attempt Harriet made just resulted in her exhaling shapeless clouds of smoke: there was no hint of rings, or even balls of smoke. Fuck. Harriet was getting frustrated, and discouraged. Jesus, this is like learning to smoke all over again. What the fuck?